


and Now that I've known You

by pennyofthewild



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dance, Ballroom Dancing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-18
Updated: 2015-01-18
Packaged: 2018-03-08 00:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3189302
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennyofthewild/pseuds/pennyofthewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[“Say, Nanase,” Matsuoka says, and there is a mischievous lilt to the words, “this is a ballroom class – you know what that means?” He laughs, presumably in response to the open shock on Haruka’s face, runs a hand through sweat-soaked hair.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	and Now that I've known You

**Author's Note:**

> ~~i'm sorry this is actually really very bad~~  
>  i'm sorry if you came here expecting quality i am trash everything i write is trash
> 
> also: i don't claim to know anything about dance, ballroom or otherwise. two left feet.

Of the many, surprising things Makoto has done since moving to Tokyo, joining a dance class is probably the (one of the) most surprising. What is more surprising, however, is how he _hadn’t_ let Haruka know, preferring to keep it quiet, instead.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he’d said, “and you’re right, I can’t dance – it’s – ”

He’d trailed off, probably in response to the look on Haruka’s face: equal parts indifference and _don’t sell yourself short_. On the surface, that is what Haruka thought – that he didn’t care, and Makoto could do anything he wanted – most people could. It was – is – just a matter of _believing_ he could. The other thing Haruka thought – below the surface – was that he really didn’t know Makoto at all, at least, not as much as Makoto seemed to know him.

It was a strangely disquieting discovery.          

The lights in the studio’s lobby are dim through the frosted glass windows. Haruka pushes the door open with the flat of his hand, the paper bag containing Makoto’s lunch-supper in the other. He hesitates, a little, inside. He had acted on impulse, taking the train down without calling ahead.

The lobby is quiet. For all Haruka knows, Makoto isn’t even here, now. In fact, it seems as though classes are no longer in session.

Maybe: if Haruka had been several hours earlier, he’d have caught Makoto before he left, accepted the invitation Makoto had sent his way:

“Maybe I’ll see you, later?”, a careful tentative close to a conversation that (had) flowed easier than so many of the words they’ve exchanged lately – a passing hark back to their easy, familiar banter.

“You’ll have other chances, Haru-chan. It’s _okay_ you didn’t make the team this time,” and “actually, it’s the instructor: I’ve told you about her – Matsuoka-san?”

“The married dance teacher you have a crush on?”

“I didn’t _know_ she was married, Haru-chan – _stop smirking like that_ –”

He’d had the conversation earlier (the same) afternoon, Haruka thinks, trailing his free hand along the corridor wall, but it feels like a remote moment in time: faraway and entirely inaccessible. He blinks, coming to a stop, casting glance around the ill-lit hallway. Without meaning to, he’d walked further into the building than he’d originally intended. Behind him, the lobby is a distant light at the end of a tunnel.

The low, indistinct sound of music spills into the hall through a gap in a door standing slightly ajar. Haruka walks closer, slowly, as if in a daze, drawn to the sound like a moth to a flame. He isn’t sure he knows what he is doing. Through the crack between the door and its frame, Haruka can make out a tall, red-headed figure moving in time to the music.

Dance, to Haruka, is something other people do. He’s never given it much thought, save a passing curiosity when Makoto mentioned his interest in it: but in the here-and-now, watching this stranger move across the parquet-board floor, gold in the glow from the ceiling lights, light-footed, like flying, Haruka thinks he’s never seen anything quite so beautiful.

“Here for the class?” The words break Haruka’s reverie. “Sorry, but you’re an hour too late.”

There’s a quizzical look on the dancer’s face: raised eyebrows, head tilted to the side. He has a sharp, arresting face: wide high cheekbones, narrow-bridged nose, full lips. Sweat glistens in the hollow of his throat, dampens his forehead. His eyes, like his hair, are red. Haruka itches for his sketchbook and pastels.

The music is still playing.

“N-no,” Haruka begins, “I – was looking for someone.”

The dancer gives Haruka a sharp-toothed grin, mopping at his forehead with the fabric of his tank-top. The movement exposes a swathe of pale, glistening skin. “I don’t owe you money, do I?”

Haruka blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s a figure of speech,” the dancer’s eyes are bright with laughter. He holds out a hand. “Matsuoka Rin,” he says, “you ever dance before?”

Haruka shakes his head, fingers closing around Matsuoka’s proffered ones: warm, and slightly clammy. “Nanase Haruka.”

“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Matsuoka says, “so how about you put that down and come on over here?”

“You know,” Matsuoka says as Haruka puts the paper bag down, “I think I’ve heard your name before. Is this really your first time coming here?”

Haruka nods. “A friend of mine comes here,” he says, and is surprised at himself, openly volunteering information, “maybe he mentioned me.”

“Maybe,” Matsuoka says, and grins, suddenly, the points of his teeth gleaming. His face creases: eyes crinkling, cheeks dimpling.  “So, you want to lead or should I?”

“I’m sorry?” Again: the words tumble from Haruka’s mouth, not wholly deliberate.

“Say, Nanase,” Matsuoka says, and there is a mischievous lilt to the words, “this is a ballroom class – you know what that means?” He laughs, presumably in response to the open shock on Haruka’s face, runs a hand through sweat-soaked hair.

Haruka bristles, face settling into a pinched scowl.

Unabashed, Matsuoka holds out a hand again: his left, this time. “May I?” he asks, a parody of what the question is supposed to mean. Haruka sighs and acquiesces.

The music changes – to a slower song, with a distinctly Caribbean melody. Matsuoka places his right hand over Haruka’s left shoulder-blade, fingers warm through the fabric of Haruka’s shirt.

“This is the dance frame,” Matsuoka says. “This is your space, this is mine. In the closed position, maintaining the frame maintains the connection between us.” His voice is quiet, but it raises the hair at the nape of Haruka’s neck.

“The count is 2-3-4-1. I’m going to step forward on two: you’re going to step back with your right foot. On three, shift your weight back to your left. I’m going to count out loud. Ready?”

Haruka nods, fingers tightening, reflexively, around Matsuoka’s bicep. “Okay, two – ” He rocks back on the third count with a sway in his hips, palm tight against Haruka’s back.

On four, Matsuoka steps to the side, “and hold for a count of one,” he says, with a flourish. “That’s the rumba basic. Easy?” His eyes find Haruka’s and catch. He is smiling, again, but this isn’t a blinding grin: it’s a quieter, slower smile – more intimate, somehow.

Of course, Haruka thinks, that may have something to do with the barely-any space in between them.

Matsuoka blinks, breaking the moment. “Right, let’s do that again – and this time, when you’re shifting your weight back,” he slides his hands down Haruka’s sides, thumbs coming to a rest against Haruka’s hipbones. Haruka can’t quite suppress a gasp. “Sorry,” Matsuoka says, “you’ve never done this before – I forgot.” He punctuates this statement with another embarrassingly-wide grin. “ _When_ you’re shifting your weight, try settling into your standing leg – it’ll give you – ”

“A sway,” Haruka blurts out, and his face immediately heats up. He stares at the ground, aware that he is probably red enough to rival Matsuoka’s hair.

Matsuoka lets out a peal of laughter, loud, uninhibited. It echoes off the walls of the hall. “You were paying attention, huh,” he says, between gasps. Haruka manfully resists the urge to cover his face with his hands. “That’s a _good_ thing.”

“Haru-chan?” Makoto’s voice – full of surprise – prompts Haruka to turn around. “You came!”

Haruka steps away from Matsuoka, suddenly guilty. “I got lost,” he says. “I – thought you’d left.”

“The contemporary dance class is on the first floor,” Makoto says, sheepish. “I thought I’d told you.” He looks from Haruka to Matsuoka, who is now leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. “You – seem to have made use of your time.”

“ – I did,” Haruka says, surprising himself again. He makes a short bow in Matsuoka’s direction. “Thank you for the lesson, Matsuoka-san.”

His teacher waves a hand. “Ah, call me Rin,” he says, and smiles. “My pleasure.”

Makoto says, “you know, Haru-chan, you can always come back. Rin-san teaches ballroom three evenings a week.”

“I do, indeed,” Rin says, still smiling. “Maybe, next time, we can work on working a little _feeling_ into your movement, hmm?”

“Thank you,” Haruka says, shooting Makoto his most urgent _let’s get out of here_ look. “I’ll think about it.”

He precedes Makoto out, not waiting to see if Makoto is following, prompting a panicked, “ _wait up_ , Haru-chan!”, walking as fast as he can without actually running.

 Outside, on the street, he leans against a lamppost, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. The cold February air is bracing, the sound of traffic deafening after the near-quiet in the studio. He can hear the slap of Makoto’s shoes against the pavement as he rushes to catch up.

There is a lingering warmth where Rin’s hands had settled, however briefly, on Haruka, hot even through layers of fabric. The parting smile, he recalls, hadn’t been a shit-eating, teasing grin, but that quiet upturn of lips – that had somehow seemed so much more sincere –

“Oh,” Haruka says when Makoto catches up, “I forgot your lunch bag.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 end,

 


End file.
